


'Cause I Know I'm a Sinner (but I Could Be a Saint in Your Head)

by ViolentAddict



Series: Omegaverse Holmes [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alpha Watson, But Maybe some Plot, M/M, Omega Sherlock, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Has a Side Job other than Sleuthing, Sherlock and Watson are Kinda Morally Grey, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, if you blink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 06:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16550303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolentAddict/pseuds/ViolentAddict
Summary: It should be written somewhere on a label, Prostitution: it isn't for everyone.Wherein Sherlock isn't perfect, he likes his side job, Watson wants to make Sherlock his and there's a lot they have to accept about each other. What else is new with these two?





	'Cause I Know I'm a Sinner (but I Could Be a Saint in Your Head)

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title is a line from the song, "Saint" by Verite.
> 
> Sucky summary is sucky. I'm so sorry guys, it's been forever since I updated this series, so have a fun oneshot! This idea kept bugging me since I listened to more of Zella Day's album, Kicker. It just gave me more ideas, particularly the non-remixed version of Hypnotic, which (the remixed version) started this whole series in the first place haha.
> 
> Anyways, thank you so much for showing this series some love and for being so supportive! 
> 
> Special, enormous thanks to Amanda, who betaed this fic. She did an amazing job and just made returning to this series so much easier and more fun for me! 
> 
> Without further ado, now onto the fic!

“I can’t deny the way he holds my hand and he grabs me, he has me by my heart.”

“ _ Off to the Races _ ”, Lana Del Rey

 

 

_ Victorian Era London _

The darkness is heavy and all-concealing like a cloak made to hide his overwhelming shame, that is, if he were even capable of feeling the emotion anymore.  And if he did, he’d still have to have enough heart to care. Sherlock, fortunately, has neither a heart or the capacity for self-reproach. What he does have is a public reputation that he won’t let anything ruin, even if his side-profession is more than a little scandalous.

Standing utterly still in the stifling room is his least favorite part of the job; having to take in several breaths of the warm, moist air to keep his head from spinning would be the cause of that. Sweat forms along his chest and beads across his forehead behind the golden mask he’s wearing, but he doesn’t mind it much. After all, when the night’s over he’s going to be covered with so many other fluids it’d be bothersome to worry about a little sweat.

The trouble is, he’s been doing this for long enough, there’s no room for any anxiety, it’s simply a matter of duty and commitment, like any other profession. Except with more leather, nudity, and a whole hell of a lot of fucking.

In the grand scheme of things, he doesn’t do much really. He merely arrives, grabs what little he wears while working, puts on a little show for the audacious alphas who watch him with their blatant unabashed hunger, and ending it all with him letting them fuck the sense out of him. Simple as that. No strings attached.

He’s not Sherlock when he’s here, instead he’s whatever those alphas want him to be. He doesn’t think or even speak. Just lets himself be so thoroughly used that he can barely walk the next morning, body so spent with his own climaxes he’s too delirious to form coherent sentences. 

Prostitution isn’t for everyone, of course. And sure, he’d  _ probably _ ... _ maybe _ , have chosen something else to do as a side hustle if he hadn’t found something as lucrative as this. But truthfully, in desperate times like these there’s hardly a difference between honest and dirty money. He’s finally making enough to cover rent and his cocaine addiction, as well as his suppressants. If he had known all it would take to be financially free again would be to sell his body, he would have done this a long time ago. Without a doubt or hesitation.

Besides, there’s not many options for omegas in London these days. There’s barely enough respect to go around, let alone employment opportunities. And he wasn’t about to beg anyone for anything - his pride would never allow it. 

All this had cost him was what was left of his dignity. Quite a small price to pay, honestly.

If it weren’t for his flatmate Watson, leaving so suddenly to run off and elope with his  _ precious, darling _ beta, Mary, Sherlock wouldn’t even have had to make extra money to afford what was supposed to be  _ their  _ rent.

Watson had hurt him by leaving. Had betrayed him. Though in some small way, he’s hurting Watson now.  _ He  _ is getting the last laugh. A smile, hidden in the darkness, curves across his face as he imagines the prim and proper Dr. John Watson finding out that not only is his good friend,  having sex with strangers for money, but that he’s  _ enjoying  _ it. Watson who’d always tried to persuade him to walk the straight and narrow path would be shocked to find him here doing these unimaginable things. 

_ He’d probably die _ , Sherlock thinks. His grin growing bigger.

Someone plucks him back to the here and now by laying a hand on his shoulder. He nearly jumps in the darkness, but when a switch is flipped filling the room with that familiar bright light. It’s revealed the person to be Clarabelle, the keeper of the brothel, he allows himself to relax.

A lady of few words, she gives him a nod, by way of greeting.

“It’s not a busy night, I take it?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugs nonchalantly, and he expects that to be the end of their conversation, when she surprises him by saying, “Someone rented you for the whole night. Said he wanted a private show.”

Sherlock says nothing. Attempting to keep his face unreadable. Concealing his surprise. “I thought we discussed my abhorrence for private shows,” he says as calmly as he can manage. It’s not like he has much of a choice either way. He has no doubts that Clara has already directed his clients for the night to other omegas, just so this one client would feel special.

She shrugs again, but this time her smile is large and her eyes are gleaming with excitement as she says, “Thought you might’ve wanted to give this’un a chance, ’specially for the pretty penny he’s paying.”

That’s the moment he feels like telling her he can’t be bought out so easily. But truth be told, any amount of extra money would be agreeable right now; his cocaine addiction was quickly becoming expensive - as much as he hates to admit. All this forced him to keep his mouth shut as she proceeded to tell him just how much the alpha was spending on him. Shocked into a silent stupor he attempted to pick his jaw up off the floor because Holy Hell, this alpha isn’t playing around. 

It wasn’t like he was a cheap price to begin with. Though he  _ is _ significantly older than the omegas who are hired here, he’s the one alphas want to pay higher for. He supposes his uniquely alluring scent, his ability to bend himself backwards, and the fact that he has a lot more sexual experience has something to do with it. 

Still, no client, alpha or otherwise, has ever willingly paid such a steep price for him. That realization is as flattering as it is frightening.

He wonders what kind of alpha needs to pay so much just for a lay. Is this alpha ugly beyond reason? Are they lonely? Are their kinks too outrageous or worse? Do they leave their sexual partners bruised and broken? Sherlock swallows the lump that has suddenly formed in his throat. Clara, oblivious to his sudden change in mood, gives him little time to mentally prepare. He barely attempts to protest as she adjusts his mask before finally pushing him into the expansive, dark room where he stumbles straight into the sights of the waiting, masked alpha. Clumsily, Sherlock falls to his knees as soon as he rights himself.

He expects to be a little nervous, but what he doesn’t expect is to be hit with such an intense wave of arousal that it forces the air in his lungs to escape him and leave him gasping. The heavy, enticing scent of sage and mint surrounds him in an inescapable hold, and his body begins to respond to the stimulus, as if it’s never encountered an alpha before. 

His stomach begins to cramp distractingly and sweat starts to bead across his forehead. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he vaguely remembers that this is the part where he’s supposed to put on the performance, but his mind’s too preoccupied with the realization that this isn’t just  _ any _ alpha. There aren’t many with this scent, and even fewer with the power to cause this reaction in him. Yet, Sherlock remains silent, he won’t give in to the temptation of saying his name. He just  _ won’t _ .

“I should have followed my instincts.” The alpha growls, “What other omega with the scent of cherries would be at a brothel looking for debauchery?” Sherlock still refuses to believe it’s him. Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to remain quiet.

When Sherlock gives him no reply, the alpha chuckles. “My, you do smell divine, Holmes.” He leans down to where Sherlock is sitting on his knees and strokes a hand through the omega’s unruly curls.

Sherlock moves out of his reach, forgetting himself. “This isn’t a fitting place for a mated alpha,” he says. “I’m sure your beloved beta would be heartbroken to see you here. Especially with me of all people. I never was her favorite.”

The alpha tuts, “She’s the least of my concerns right now, darling.”

“Apparently,” Sherlock huffs, “You probably spent your entire household salary tonight. That wasn’t particularly nice,  _ Watson _ .” 

Sherlock allows himself to look at the expression on Watson’s face, for just a brief moment, and from the little he can see behind the alpha’s mask, electric blue eyes meet alluring brown ones, and neither of them speaks. Watson’s lips curve into a devious  smirk and he lifts Sherlock to his feet while dragging him to the “love sofa”.

“There are easier ways to make money, you know, Holmes,” Watson points out, taking a seat on the couch and pulling Sherlock gracefully, into his lap. 

It’s getting hard to breathe again. Watson’s all powerful scent is beginning to dominate the entire space, but what’s worse is Sherlock’s body isn’t protesting in the slightest. Slick is beginning to leak from his arse, and he’s sure it won’t be long before he’s a complete and utter horny mess.

“Agreed. I just happen to  _ like _ this method,” Sherlock bites back, surprised he’s still coherent.

Watson chuckles again, a breathy sound in the otherwise quiet room. “You were alway so stubborn. I don’t suppose you’d care to show a disgraced alpha male a good time, would you?”

Sherlock shakes his head, trying to clear the hormone fueled haze that is his mind. “I thought you only wanted to be friends.” 

Watson’s hand grazes Sherlock’s arm leaving goosebumps to rise in the wake of his touch. “For a genius, you are pretty oblivious, Old Cock.”

Sherlock glares at him, but that only seems to spur Watson on. Emboldened, he places a soft, but firm kiss to the junction where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder earning a groan from the omega.

“Watson,” he whispers, too wound up to fight his feelings anymore. “I’ll do whatever you want, just tell me why you’re here.”

The alpha pauses the trailing of his perfect lips across Sherlock’s skin to say, “Sadly my dear, I don’t have much of an explanation except, that I want to be here.” laying another perfect kiss on his neck, “with you.” 

Sherlock turns around in Watson’s lap so their gazes are level. From so close Watson’s scent is overpowering. But underneath it is the scent of the crisp night air from just outside those doors. It makes the next words he says easier somehow, “That-that’s good enough for me.”

They kiss then, with little finesse and pure frenzy. There are flashes of teeth and tongue and Sherlock doesn’t remember when Watson suddenly got as naked as himself, but bloody hell if he could find that he cares. 

Between kisses to his throat, Watson asks, as Sherlock strokes him to an aching hardness, “Do you need any preparation my dear Sherlock?”

Sherlock simply bites his lip and shakes his head. He gives himself a little distance from Watson, whose gaze hasn’t left his hips, before he’s putting on a show of holding Watson’s thick girth in place and lowering himself onto it. It feels too bloody good, as it always does with his well endowed clients, but this is better because it’s Watson.

Hard hands dig into his hips as Watson attempts to still him. Sherlock allows it briefly, before he’s pulling Watson’s hands away in order to ride him slow and steady. Harsh, breathy moans escape from his throat, while Watson groans low and guttural as Sherlock grinds down at the right moments. 

“I’ve had a lot of time to learn,” Sherlock answers Watson’s unspoken question, and that, as Sherlock expects, earns him a deep growl from the alpha within Watson. Sherlock remains unbothered. “You see, when you went off with that woman, I was forced to rebuild my life in order to get by. I found things to give me pleasure, satisfaction, and they didn’t all involve you, Watson.”

Suddenly, wordlessly, Watson tightens his grip on Sherlock and turns them both so that Sherlock is pressed into the couch with Watson above him. Watson’s face is unreadable, but his red rimmed eyes are full of danger. Sherlock’s unable to get another word out before the alpha picks up the pace and starts pounding into him, hitting his sweet spot relentlessly. 

A cry escapes Sherlock’s lips  as he claws at Watson’s back pleading with him to keep going and never stop. Saying the alpha’s name as if it’s the only word left in his vocabulary.

It doesn’t take long for Sherlock to come, and when he does it’s so intense he has trouble keeping still. Watson aggressively fucks him through it, and then, without another word pulls out, leaving Sherlock to feel empty and spent. 

“W-watson?” Sherlock asks confused, coming down from his orgasmic high.

Watson’s magnetic blue gaze burns into his. “No other alpha is going to touch you ever again. From now on. I’ll make sure of it.”

Sherlock, still a little dazed, says, “Watson, I’ll be a worse habit than gambling.”

It’s then that the alpha smirks impishly. “My beautiful Sherlock, I’ve made a little deal with your brothel keeper. All I have to do is pay a fee and you’re mine to own.”

“What?” Sherlock says rather eloquently. For once lost for words. 

Watson curls his finger under the omega’s chin. “I own you now, to do whatever I want, to fuck, to breed, to claim.” 

“But Watson --”

“Come now, Sherlock, is that any way for my omega to act?” Watson isn’t smiling anymore. Thrills of both panic and desire compete for Sherlock’s attention within his body. Without further protest, the omega rises to his feet and lets Watson take his hand. Leading him away from the brothel and deeper into a place where there’s no coming back from. Watson reassures Sherlock he’s going to like it, and Sherlock, heaven help him, has no doubt those words are true. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys for having so much patience and for reading the stuff my brain churns out!
> 
> You're all so great!


End file.
